Welling Up — September 19, 2016

Welling Up

Sweet little boy

with sycamore-scraped knees

welling up with heartache

for the summer honey bees

 

You are an ocean

free to rush barren land

and nourish outreached hands

as you muddy up the sand

 

 

You are a rain cloud

free to blanket towns

and clean the homes of dust and soot

as you come pouring down

 

You are a shower

free to warm chilly skin

and cradle broken bodies

to let them feel again

 

Sweet little boy

with sycamore-scraped knees

welling up with heartache

for the summer honey bees

 

You are free

Dirty Dishes — September 18, 2016

Dirty Dishes

 

 

 

Growing bold against your coldness, I slip a foot under the sheet.

Graze the curve behind your ankle and you snap your neck to chastise me, your best stone wall impression in lieu of letting me hear your voice. You know how long I’ve been waiting for you to say anything.

Cupping your face with my thoughts since you won’t let me use my hands, I thrust at you a desperate, misty-eyed rendition of the lines I’ve been running through my head since we last put on this routine.

Though I know from experience you’ll batter each word just as it leaves my swollen mouth- lest you hear any way in which you may be at fault.

“Is this how you see the rest of your life?” memory of a friend’s concern rings sharply inside of me.

Is this how I see the rest of my life…

I tell myself what I always do; so many passionless relationships…maybe the stones you throw are worth their weight in rushing blood and “forgive me” kisses.

My quivery monologue comes to an end and you turn away, unimpressed with my efforts as ever. “Maybe this is worth it”, I repeat with dwindling conviction.

“The dirty dishes stack up high, but at least they’re proof we’re eating.”